


The Twenty Fifth of March

by ScribeofArda



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, bittersweet fluff (if that's a thing), i don't know i'm useless at tags, pretty much most of the fellowship and some others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twenty-fifth of March: the day that Sauron fell, that the One Ring was destroyed. Two different shots of this date, twenty five years apart, of the remainder of the fellowship and the celebrations of the date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twenty Fifth of March

**Author's Note:**

> This short-ish (we’ll see, because I have tried to write a one shot and ended up writing 20,000 words once) one shot is to sort of commemorate the fact that on the 25th of March, TA 3019, the War of the Ring ended in Middle Earth. So this 25th of March, have a nice one shot!  
> As for my main story I am writing at the moment, it is about two third done, I guess? I can’t be precise on the timings and when it is going to be published, because I am snowed under by work from school, and I have exams coming up in a few months, but I will try and get it done in a month or two. I know where it is going and what is happening, it is just a question of actually writing it, and filling in the bits in between.  
> This is book-verse, meaning that after the battle outside the Black Gate the army camped in Ithilien, and that only Pippin was at the battle, Merry remaining behind in Minas Tirith. Plus Elladan and Elrohir, and the Dunedain, who journeyed down from the North to help Aragorn. Also, at one point you briefly meet my OC elf Belhadron- for anyone a bit curious about him, he will be featured in my next long story.  
> Disclaimer: nope, I own absolutely nothing. Apart from Belhadron- he is all mine!

It was so loud.

A cacophony of sound surrounded them. Most prevalent was the clashing of steel upon steel as swords connected with each other, but on top of that was the sound of people shouting, some in defiance, some in anger and rage, some in pain. Occasionally a scream was heard over the rest of the shouts, high pitched and petering out quickly.

Underneath ran a current of the sound of footsteps, the stamp of orcish feet as they turned and ran way, the slower tread of those men, Easterlings and Haradrim, that had not yet fully realised what had just happened. Shouts had begun to turn from desperate to victorious, and the lighter pounding of feet could be heard as the men of Gondor and Rohan broke rank and pushed forwards, elated in their victory.

And on top of all that sound, merging and clashing together, everyone could hear something resounding through what seemed like the very ground and the air and everything around them. There was a great reverberation and the ground shook beneath their feet, a great plume of smoke hanging over Orodruin.

It was so quiet.

It was loud, of course, but the sound seemed to flow above and below them. Aragorn could hear what was happening around him, but at the same time it was muffled, like the sound was happening everywhere apart from where he stood.

The Eagles were swooping overhead, the Nazgul falling to their sharp beaks and claws, those that had not turned on a desperate flight to Orodruin. Aragorn’s gaze turned to Mordor, and he watched, along with everyone else, in total disbelief and amazement as Barad-Dur shuddered, and then began to collapse, the eye of Sauron that was barely visible from where they were standing flickering out, as if it were simply a flame trying to stand in too much wind.

Frodo.

Sam.

His gaze turned from disbelief to anguish, and Aragorn turned to Gandalf, who had not been too far from him for most of the fight. “Frodo,” he said. “Sam. We have to…”

Gandalf nodded, and in the next few moments he was gone, one of the eagles swooping down and picking him up to drop him onto another eagle’s back. With a few powerful beats of their wings, they soared upwards, heading into the heart of Mordor.

On the ground, everything was chaos. The orcs were running, falling back to Mordor, but as Aragorn watched the ground shook again and the towers and the gate in front of them first shuddered, and then began to collapse, the ground in front of them giving way. Multitudes of orcs ran straight into the collapsing, twisted mound of iron and steel and stone, more still falling into the deep pits that were opening up around the Ephel Duath.

The Easterlings and Haradrim were still fighting, but the tide had long since turned and the armies of Gondor and Rohan, that had never meant to be more than a distraction, gave chase.

Aragorn did not. He watched the eagles until he couldn’t see them no more, and then his eyes travelled across the Morannon in front of him, hoping beyond hope that those he loved had not been cut down.

He spotted Eomer first, for the man had been fighting close to him. Aragorn stepped across, finding his way through the dead lying on the ground, orcs and men alike. It must have been thousands covering the Morannon, and though much of the fighting had finished and moved off, Aragorn could hear the cries of wounded amongst the dead. The calls seemed to be coming from everywhere, and it took him a moment to shut them out, and concentrate on what needed to be done.

Eomer reached Aragorn at the same time as Prince Imrahil and various other captains of both Rohan and Gondor, and it was there, surrounded by fleeing orcs and men, the dead and the dying, that they swiftly made plans. Already the fighting was fast dwindling, those men who had served Sauron laying down their weapons and falling to the ground.

They had won. They were alive. So many others weren’t, but there would be plenty of time to come to mourn those who had fallen. For now, there was work to be done.

Men were sent north to Cair Andros, where more soldiers were stationed. Messengers were sent on their fastest horses back to Minas Tirith, and the weary task of finding the wounded and separating them from the dead began.

Aragorn could not help but glance at the sky every few minutes, desperate for the eagles to return, though there was little hope that Frodo and Sam were alive. But then there had been little hope of this foolish quest ever succeeding in the first place, and yet here they were.

“We must set up a camp somewhere,” Aragorn said to Imrahil, who was standing next to him. “The wounded will need tending, once supplies and more men are sent out from Minas Tirith, but we cannot journey all the way back to the city.” There would be many dead after this day, and many wounded men.

“Ithilien,” said Imrahil. “We can make camp on the Field of Cormallen. I will send another rider to Minas Tirith with the information.” Imrahil turned away, signalling for another soldier. Eomer nodded and then turned away, seeking his own captains. Aragorn held back a sigh, stopped himself from leaning on his sword, and allowed his gaze to roam across the battlefield.

The remaining Dunedain had gathered together, and Aragorn spotted Elladan and Elrohir picking their way across the littered ground towards him. Elladan looked up and saw him, and gave him a weary smile and a nod.

Aragorn nodded back, but he was still distracted by the lack of eagles in the sky, and the thoughts of Frodo and Sam quickly brought up the thoughts of the rest of the Fellowship. Aragorn felt his heartbeat quicken as his gaze searched for Legolas, Gimli and Pippin, though Pippin he probably wouldn’t be able to see from where he was standing.

There came the sound of light footfalls from behind him, and Aragorn spun around, his hand going to Anduril’s hilt before he realised who was standing behind him and relief flooded through his body.

“You are unhurt?” he asked, clasping Legolas’ shoulder. The blond elf looked weary as he sheathed his knives, his bow already on his back. His quiver was empty, and his green tunic was spattered with blood. Legolas absent-mindedly tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind one pointed ear. He nodded.

“Nothing that won’t heal quickly,” he said. “Gimli is looking for Pippin at the moment. We aren’t sure where he is.” The young hobbit had never been in a proper battle before, not like this, and Legolas felt a pang of worry as he scanned the battlefield again, catching sight of Gimli moving slowly amongst the dead. 

He glanced back at Aragorn, noticing the slight look of disbelief that was on everyone’s faces, the weariness that was enveloping all of them. “I just wanted to let you know we are both unhurt,” he said.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said. He looked around at the battlefield, at the soldiers moving all over the area, finding the wounded, bringing the dead away from the orc carcasses. In total, Aragorn guessed that there was about four thousand people still standing.

His eyes searched the skies in vain again, and Legolas seemed to guess where he was looking. “I saw the Eagles pass overhead,” he murmured. He glanced over at Aragorn, and a smile came over his face, standing out amongst the faces of grief, or mostly just sheer disbelief.

“I told Gimli this, and I will tell you,” Legolas said with a slight chuckle. “They say: Oft hope is born when all is forlorn, and such a phrase cannot be truer than now. Look at where we are standing, Aragorn, and tell me that there is no hope for them.”

Aragorn felt a small smile come across his face. Legolas clasped his shoulder, and then moved off, picking his way across the battlefield to where Gimli was. Aragorn watched as Gimli looked up and Legolas smiled and said something that had the Dwarf nod and briefly clasp Legolas’ arm.

Eomer stepped up beside Aragorn from where he had been organising his own men, and leant on his sword. “That we have lived to see such times,” he said, removing his helm and letting it fall on the ground at his feet.

“That such times have come to pass at all,” said Aragorn in reply, straightening up and sheathing Anduril. “But they have, and we should be thankful.”

“If thankful is the right word,” said Eomer. He sighed. “Thousands of men of Rohan, of my men, are dead. Thousands of Gondor soldiers are dead. We have triumphed, but it has been a costly price.”

Aragorn nodded. “But we have triumphed nonetheless, Eomer,” he said. “We must do what we can now.” His eyes went to the sky again, searching in vain for the great shapes of eagles.

They no longer had hope, as such. They had something else: a certainty, because though it did not seem all too real at moments, Aragorn knew that beyond all reason, they had triumphed. They had won. And though it was a high price he had paid, Aragorn knew enough of history to know that there always seemed to be one.

For a moment he and Eomer stood together, two Kings silhouetted against the slowly sinking sun. Aragorn thought for a moment, and then the small part of his mind that was not focused on what was going on around them, or on the lack of Eagles in the sky, or still trying to convince the rest of him that they were done, that it was over, managed to work out that it was the twenty fifth of March.

Aragorn knew the date would be remembered for hundreds of years, if not more. The day that they triumphed, the day that they overthrew Sauron. The day that they triumphed, that the darkness was finally overthrown. In a few years, it would become a celebration.

It hardly seemed like something to celebrate at the moment, thought a small part of Aragorn as he planned further with Eomer what had to be done next. They must have lost thousands of people in the last month of war, even more counting everyone, elf, man and dwarf, who had given their lives fighting the darkness. And yet Aragorn just knew that in a few years people, or at least people who had not seen any of this, would be celebrating in the streets.

His attention was drawn from Eomer as he heard someone with the clear voice of an elf calling his name, and his gaze found Legolas. The blond elf was standing tall, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. Elladan and Elrohir were standing next to him, both looking up into the sky, and Aragorn felt hope stir within him.

“Aragorn!” called Legolas clearly. “The Eagles are returning!”

And all thoughts of the twenty fifth of March fled Aragorn’s mind as he started forwards, as he first saw the great wings of the eagles, shadowed against the dissipating darkness and cloud that hung over Mordor. They passed over the Morannon, the shadows of their wings falling on the bloody ground, and Aragorn saw face after face turn up to the great birds, as if they held the hope that they needed in their claws.

And later, much later, when Frodo and Sam were merely resting, when the army was camped in Ithilien, away from the stench of the Morannon, Aragorn’s thoughts turned back to the twenty fifth of March, now yesterday. 

He knew that he wasn’t thinking too straight at the moment, a combination of a lack of sleep and energy, as well as a slight continued shock over what they had managed to do. And he knew that when Frodo and Sam were out of danger, when they returned to Minas Tirith and he had more than a day to realise what was going on, that he would probably not have these thoughts even enter his mind.

But in his sleep deprived mind, he could make little sense of his thoughts, and he wondered whether what had happened today would be something he could ever celebrate.

0-o-0-o-0

The year 23 of the Fourth Age, or 1444 by Shire reckoning.  
The twenty fifth of March.

The woods were slowly coming back to life, though it seemed an insult to suggest that anywhere inhabited by wood elves was ever, in fact, dead. Nevertheless, spring was seeping back into the grey woods in the bursts of flowers huddled at the bases of trunks, the grass slowly becoming once again the green carpet it would be in summer. There was a slight breeze this morning, and the long shadows of the leaves danced slowly on the forest floor.

Faramir breathed in the air as he stepped through Ithilien. It was much cleaner than Minas Tirith, the woods untouched save by the hands of the elves, and the scent of blossom was just beginning to fill the woods.

“He is here somewhere, my Lord,” said the elf walking at his side with a chuckle. It had been twenty-five years since the fall of Sauron, the destruction of the One Ring, but apparently that was not long enough for the elves to move weaponless through the woods. Faramir could see the knife hanging at the elf’s belt, and knew full well how hard old habits died.

“He only returned last night from Eryn Lasgalen,” continued the elf, leading Faramir through the heart of the elven colony in Ithilien. Elegant houses were in or on the edge of the clearing, and looking up Faramir could see the various talans throughout the canopies of the trees. “But he is without doubt back in Ithilien.”

The elf paused, his head tilted to one side, and he smiled. “He is coming, my Lord,” he said. “I should have known.” He nodded towards the edge of the clearing, and then turned to walk away.

Faramir looked over at him with a puzzled expression, but before he could ask he heard the sound of lilting voice speaking Silvan, and the answering reply. In a few moments, Legolas appeared on one of the trails leading out of the clearing, his quiver and bow over his back ad a long knife at his waist. He was looking over his shoulder, talking to the dark-haired elf walking behind him. As they stepped into the clearing the dark-haired elf said something, a grin on his face, which had Legolas tip his head back and laugh.

Legolas saw Faramir, and he smiled. “Faramir,” he said in greetings. “My apologies. I lost track of the time.” Again, the dark-haired elf muttered something in Silvan that made Legolas chuckle and fire something back in the same flowing language.

Faramir stepped forwards and briefly clasped Legolas’ arm in greetings. “Do not worry,” he said. “We actually have a few hours before either of us have to be present, but Aragorn has rather a lot to do today, and I want to be there sooner rather than later.”

Legolas nodded, and slung his quiver from his back. He handed it to the dark-haired elf behind him, who rolled his eyes and huffed, but took it anyway. “I am not your servant,” he said with a grin, shouldering the quiver and taking the long knife from Legolas’ belt as well.

Legolas laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” he asked the elf, pushing his blond hair out of his face. The elf shook his head, shifting the extra quiver hanging off his shoulder.

“I will not,” he said with a soft smile. “It is not my place.”

Legolas chuckled. “It is as much your place as mine, Belhadron, but I understand.” The elf nodded, and clasping Legolas’ shoulder briefly, turned and made his way to one of the trees nearby, climbing swiftly up a slight rope ladder up to the talan.

Legolas followed suit, and then in a few minutes reappeared. He was changed out of his customary greens and browns into something smarter, a pale blue tunic, and he bore a thin silver circlet on his brow. Faramir chuckled, knowing how much the elf disliked wearing the thing, but it was befitting of one of the Lords of Ithilien, and the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen. Undoubtedly Legolas would remove it as soon as he could.

They rode out of Ithilien together, and it only took a few hours to arrive on the edge of Osgiliath, the city rebuilt, white stone standing out in the morning sunlight. Faramir and Legolas rode down the packed dirt rode through the Pelennor, and already great canopies had been erected on the field, spreading out from the gates of Minas Tirith. Flags snapped in the breeze blowing in from the west, flags bearing the white tree and seven stars of Elendil.

Legolas checked his horse as they rode in through the great mithril and steel gates of the city, and they wound their way through the busy streets of the city up to the citadel. People were in high spirits, occasionally waving at Faramir and Legolas as they rode past, and Legolas smiled, watching a small girl with ribbons in her hair run down the street.

“Twenty five years,” murmured Faramir. “It feels like only a year, and yet an entire Age at the same time.”

Legolas chuckled. “It feels like twenty-five years to me,” he said with a smile. “These will be the largest festivities yet, by the looks of it.”

Faramir nodded. “The council wanted it,” he said. “Personally, both Aragorn and I find it a little…wearing, but the councillors insisted. A triumphant day to remember, they said.” He shook his head slightly. “I am glad I do not have to be on the Pelennor for most of the day.”  
Legolas nodded in understanding. It was the reason why none of his elves had come with him, instead choosing to remain in the peaceful quiet of Ithilien. Especially for elves, twenty-five years was not such a long time.

In a few minutes they were on the sixth level, and leaving the horses there, they made their way up to the citadel. Faramir left to find Eowyn, who had been in Rohan for the past month and ridden back with Eomer a few days ago. Legolas moved through the small crowd in the courtyard until he found Aragorn, speaking with Eomer in the shade of the white tree with his back to him.

Aragorn heard someone call his name, and, assuming it to be a councillor demanding yet another minute of his time, held up one hand. “In a moment,” he said, barely looking over his shoulder.

To his surprise, he heard a low chuckle from behind him. “Is that any way to greet old friends?”

Aragorn turned at the familiar voice, and his face split in a smile as he saw Legolas standing there. “You’re back,” he said, clasping the elf’s arm in greetings. “When did you arrive?”

“Late last night,” said Legolas, greeting Eomer as well. “It was a long journey from Eryn Lasgalen.” He had been there for over three months, from the middle of winter, and had ridden back early to be here in time for this day.

For a few minutes the three of them talked. It was peaceful. It had been peaceful for decades now, and the strange feeling that had accompanied the peace in the first few years had all but gone over the years. People had never forgotten, but likewise they had not dwelt on the memories for too long.

Before long Gimli appeared with Sam, Merry and Pippin, the three Halflings having ridden first to Rohan, where they met Gimli and Eomer before journeying to Gondor. All of them had grown older, with Sam bearing traces of grey hair, and maybe there was a slight weariness to them that had not existed before the war, but they had merry smiles and laughter that soon made any thought of such a thing disappear.

Aragorn smiled as the six of them stood together under the shade of the White Tree. “The remainder of the Fellowship,” he said softly.  
“Aye,” said Gimli with a small smile. “Over twenty-five years since we first met in Rivendell at the council.”

Pippin chuckled. “We were not a fellowship then,” he remarked with knowing glances at Legolas and Gimli, who both laughed. “But it cannot have been twenty-five years.”

“It does not feel like it,” said Merry in agreement. “Were it not for the count of how many times Sam has been elected for Mayor of the Shire, I would hardly realise it has been so long.”

Sam chuckled, but it faded to a soft smile. “I wonder whether Frodo is remembering this day,” he said softly. “Wherever he is.”

“I should think he will be, Sam,” said Aragorn with a smile. “He will not have forgotten, just as we will not forget.” And they never would, he knew that. The events that shaped the end of the third Age would be remembered by all, but more importantly, he knew that Frodo would never be forgotten, nor Théoden or Boromir or anyone else who had given so much. Not whilst he could still remember them.

The six of them, all that was left of the Fellowship this side of the Sundering Seas, remained together for a while, trading news of homes and families. Gimli spoke at length of Helm’s Deep and the caves there, until eventually Legolas managed to quiet him, laughing as he did so. Merry spoke of Buckland and his travels through Eriador, Pippin of the works he was completing. Sam spoke fondly of the Shire, of the mallorns growing where the party tree once stood, and the sun rose higher in the sky as they talked.

The day passed quickly enough, all of them going out onto the Pelennor for an hour or so at midday. But most of the time the remainder of the Fellowship stayed in the citadel, away from most of the hustle of the rest of the city.

The sun was sinking in the sky when Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and the hobbits retired to the more private gardens in the citadel with Eomer and Faramir. Soon Eowyn, Arwen and Lothiriel joined them, and it was there that they ate, surrounded by quiet and the blossoming trees.

Before too long, Aragorn’s son Eldarion came into the garden with Elfwine and Elboron. The three of them, about the same age, had grown to be friends, Eldarion having spent a great deal of time with Faramir’s son Elboron, and last year in Rohan with Elfwine.

The three of them were not wholly steady on their feet, which was largely due to the probably empty goblets in their hands. Eowyn promptly took the goblet out of her son’s hand, and the three young men sat down at the table that had been put outside.

Aragorn, looking around the table at those who were there, sighed slightly, but it was with a smile on his face. Gimli was telling Eldarion, Elfwine and Elboron a tale from the War, by the sounds of it, with help from Merry and Pippin. Eowyn and Lothiriel were sharing knowing looks as Eomer and Faramir began talking about something that, apparently, had been a conversation had many times before, the two men having gotten to know each other well. On his right, Arwen was talking to Legolas about something that happened long before anyone else at the table was born, Sam listening in, for his curiosity had still not wholly disappeared, though it had been sated much over the years.

There was a grief present at the table, Aragorn knew. It had softened significantly over the past years, but on such a day, it would always be there. Anniversaries had a tendency to bring up memories.

Aragorn saw Sam smiling wistfully, and leant over to where the hobbit was sitting on his left. “What is it?” he asked softly.

“I was just thinking,” said Sam. “Frodo would have liked this.”

Aragorn smiled. “I think he would have,” he said. “How is your young Frodo, by the way? He had only met Sam’s eldest son a few times, but enough to remember the dimpled smile and mischievousness that reminded him of Pippin.

“He’s doing fine,” said Sam with a smile. “They all are. Elanor has all but grown up now, as has Frodo, but they have not gone far.” He smiled, thinking of Rosie, who was at home with their youngest child Tolman, not old enough for such a journey as the one to Gondor.

Aragorn smiled, and nodded at Eldarion. “He still has a few more years left of growing,” he said fondly, watching his seventeen-year-old son as he listened to Gimli, Merry and Pippin all trying to tell the story at the same time. “But it is hard not to see him as a child anymore.” Sam nodded in agreement.

The talk continued around the table, Sam leaning over to correct Pippin on some wild story he was telling of their young days in the Shire, and Aragorn couldn’t help but notice how much of the conversation around the table was firmly rooted twenty-five years in the past.  
Anniversaries brought back memories, but as Aragorn watched the three hobbits laugh out loud, as he saw Legolas smile and say something to Gimli of their time in Rohan all those years ago, he remembered that not all memories of a dark time were necessarily dark.

He thought back to all those years ago, when his tired mind had wondered if he would ever be able to celebrate this day: the twenty-fifth of March. At the time, the grief of all that they had lost had led him to believe that maybe it was not possible, not for those who had seen what they had all seen. But remembering such times does not have to be wholly tragic. Memories of Boromir trying to teach Merry and Pippin how to fight properly, of Frodo dancing at the Prancing Pony sprang unbidden to his mind, and Aragorn smiled to himself as he looked around their small gathering.

The grief over those who they had lost had lessened over time, and now, twenty-five years after the war, it was nearly unseen. But they would never forget those they had lost, never not honour them in their memories. And even if the celebrations that were going on in the city seemed to Aragorn to contain a little too much bunting, what they had won was certainly worth remembering. And he would never stop being grateful for it.

He felt a light touch on his arm, jerking him out of his thoughts, and he turned with a soft smile to Arwen. “What are you thinking of?” she asked, a soft smile on her face.

Aragorn shrugged. “Just idle thoughts,” he murmured, and slipping his hand into hers, he watched as the sun sank slowly over the blossoming trees.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to anyone who has read this.


End file.
